


A Gifted Hand [Klaine Advent Day Seven]

by marauder_in_warblerland



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:50:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauder_in_warblerland/pseuds/marauder_in_warblerland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt had always thought of Blaine's appreciation for his hands as an inside joke, but today he's not so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gifted Hand [Klaine Advent Day Seven]

The first time Blaine mentions his hands, Kurt’s _almost_ certain he’s kidding.

They’d been studying for junior and senior exams in Blaine’s bedroom, surrounded by stacks of threadbare library books and half-empty cups of congealed coffee. Somewhere between cups two and three, Blaine had tossed himself across the bed with a book propped open against the footboard and a pencil tucked behind his right ear. Kurt responded by using his boyfriend’s back as a desk, and stretched his AP French notes from the dip of Blaine’s lower back to the sharp peaks of his shoulder blades. The rise of his desk’s ass had proven distracting, to be sure, but also oddly motivating. 

Lost in the rules of double negatives, Kurt didn’t notice his own hand snaking up Blaine’s back or three  fingers looping into the hair at the nape of his neck. He didn’t realize that he had started tracing lazy circles, first one way and then the other, until Blaine let out a low noise somewhere between a chuckle and a moan. “Oh. _Hiiiii Kurt_.”

Kurt’s hand stilled and he looked up into the back of Blaine’s head. “Am I tickling you?”

“Yes, but please don’t stop.” Blaine dropped his head into the inner hinge of his textbook and arched his neck into Kurt fingers. “Your hands are _gifted_.” 

Kurt had smiled and pressed harder into the soft skin between Blaine’s styled hair and his collar, but he hadn’t taken it seriously. It had been a long afternoon of brain work and they’d both just wanted to feel something outside of their own, tired minds. Most of all, Blaine had laughed and that’s what usually happened when one of them mentioned Kurt’s hands.

His hands, or more accurately, his _fingers_ had become a _thing_. Kurt brought it up first, after they emerged, breathless, from the astronomy room, alive with the weight of their own bodies. He’d made a crack about his own dexterity, and Blaine couldn’t stop smiling at the memory of a younger Kurt who couldn’t fantasize beyond “the touch of the fingertips.” It was truly their joke, animated inside the intersection of two lives. Plus, every time Blaine wiggled his eyebrows at Warbler Kurt’s youthful naivete, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to swat him away or back him into the nearest storage closet. 

So, he’d written off Blaine’s moan into his homework as a call for contact … until it happens again. 

Nearly four months after their study date on Blaine’s bed, Kurt finds himself in his kitchen at 9 pm on a Tuesday making enough wonton soup to feed the New Directions’ next audience at Nationals. 

As in most things these days, he blames the Lima Bean. Working day in and day out with processed muffins and flash-frozen cookie-pucks is enough to make the most reluctant foodie long for something fresh. Kurt’s response, as it turns out, is more specific. After every eight-hour shift he longs to feed his dad, Carole, Finn, and Blaine with jinhua ham, Japanese kombu, and pork wontons until they burst. Each time he uses the same recipe and each time he’s lost to the world for hours, peeling fresh shrimp and blanching bones in an olfactory haze.Today, he’s so busy folding wonton skins, moistened with beads of water, into delicate purses that he doesn’t notice when he earns an audience. Carole might have been watching from behind his left shoulder for minutes or hours before he stretches, and accidentally leans into the solidity of her chest. 

She laughs and pats him on the shoulder as he whips around. “Those are stunning, Kurt. Your mother must have had the most talented hands; I don’t think your father could shape pasta if _your_ life depended on it.” She reaches out to rightly tap one plump bulb. “Those hands are a gift and don’t let anyone tell you different. Don’t you think so, Blaine?” 

Kurt follows her gaze and finds his boyfriend leaning against the open doorway, staring open-mouthed at Kurt’s handiwork … no, not at his handiwork, at his hands. He takes in his boyfriend’s glazed eyes, and is suddenly quite certain that for all Blaine cares, Carole might has well have been speaking Cantonese. She hustles back out of the kitchen as quickly as she arrived, either unaware of or willing to ignore Blaine’s  silent rapture.  

For one long minute, he examines the joint where the chef’s index finger meets his thumb, lips breathless and open in admiration. Kurt can almost feel the rising heat as Blaine’s gaze slips up one arm, lingers on his neck, and finally reaches his face, only to find its owner staring back. In a single breath, Blaine goes the same color as his polo, and he turns to rush up the stairs, muttering something about “so much calculus.”

Stunned and blinking in his boyfriend’s wake, Kurt takes in the mess he has made of his parents’ kitchen. Shrimp sit in baking soda and salt on the counter, dirty mixing bowls overflow from the sink, and nearly three dozen wontons stand like little soldiers along the cutting board, but they’re all going to have to hold their places for one night. The dumplings will freeze, the shrimp will soak, and the pots will wait, because Kurt is already throwing his apron over his head and following the heat of his boyfriend’s gaze up the stairs. His genetically-gifted hands might have been made to fold and twirl, but right now, they have more important things to do. 


End file.
